Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(76)

The sheriff had, as I’d told Claire on the phone, stopped wearing his pistols. In fact, he didn’t wear a gun at all. I’d seen him a week earlier, and he looked like he’d dropped thirty pounds. He still wore the cowboy hat, but he drove an SUV with the same decals on it that every other vehicle in his department displayed.

There remained only two discreet gambling clubs on the east and west ends of the county. They were owned and operated by the Tipton family. No alcohol was allowed, and patrons were searched with wands at the door to ensure they didn’t bring weapons into the clubs. I’d talked to Granny a week after they got the clubs up and running, and she seemed genuinely pleased with how things were going.

We finished the arraignment of the defendant, and I walked up the stairs toward my office. My cell phone vibrated, and I looked at it. It was Claire’s number.

“They picked him up five minutes ago,” she said.

“Who?”

“Hanes Howell. You made quite an impression on my grandfather and the FBI when you came to Washington. The FBI arrested him. He’s on his way to jail in Nashville. I don’t think he’ll be getting out for a long, long time.”

“What did they charge him with?”

“You know, it seems that the FBI has some incredibly talented and imaginative investigators. I don’t want to say anything else over the phone. Just keep an eye on the Nashville news this afternoon, and watch for my grandfather’s call.”

A couple of hours later, I found out what they’d done to him. Senator Roger Tate called me himself on a secure phone from his office in the Capitol Building and told me what happened.

“Since Hanes Howell’s lawyer had apparently been incredibly proficient at hiding his money, the FBI couldn’t get to him that way. So they hacked into his work computer and downloaded more than a thousand images of child pornography from various sites on the Internet and from chat rooms. They made it appear as though Howell had done it. Then they copied the images and will use them against him at trial,” Tate said. “They did the same thing with a laptop Howell owns and a personal computer at Howell’s house, and they did it in such a way that nobody will ever know what happened.”

The news accounts made Howell look like the ultimate pervert, the worst of the worst. They said the director of the TBI had been charged with illegally downloading thousands of pornographic images of children—some of them as young as eight years old—off the Internet. He was facing thirty years in a federal penitentiary, and from experience, I knew how prisoners felt about child molesters, child abusers, and child pornography. Howell was in for a hard time.

“Thank you, Senator,” I said, and I hung up.

Washed-up old fool, I thought, remembering what Howell had said about Senator Tate. What do you think of him now, Hanes?





CHAPTER 45

Six months later . . .

Tom Masoner, my number-two guy in the office, sat across from me. Tom had turned out to be exactly what I thought he would be—somebody I could trust. He was smart and he was tough, and he was as organized as any person I’d ever met. Number three in the office was sitting next to him. Her name was Felicia Delgado, a woman Tom had recruited from a criminal defense firm in Knoxville. She’d taken a sizable pay cut to come join the ranks of underpaid public servants, but she’d done so with a smile and a sense of purpose. Tom had transitioned from trying strictly violent felony cases to being in charge of organizing every court our office was responsible for, including the child-support division. Felicia had taken over Tom’s position as the lead violent-felony prosecutor, and she was damned good at it.

“So I got a call this morning from a woman in Washington,” I said to the two of them. “She wants to take me on a date on her grandfather’s private jet.”

“Her grandfather’s private jet?” Tom said. “And who is this mystery woman?”

“Not a mystery woman. Remember my campaign manager, Claire Tate?”

“Oh yeah,” Roger said. “Hottie, hottie, hottie.”

“Yeah, she’s cute. And absolutely filthy rich, which I don’t care about, but I don’t mind, either.”

“Where does she want to take you on this date?” Felicia said.

“A couple of places. First, we’re going to Turks and Caicos. Then we’re going to check out South America.”

“What part of South America? It’s a big continent.”

“Brazil, maybe Paraguay.”

“Fantastic. Have a great time.”

“So you guys are cool with this? You can get along without me?”

“We could do without you every day,” Tom said. “We don’t need you to run this place—do we, Felicia?”

“Ah, I don’t know. He comes in handy once in a while.”

“When are you leaving?” Tom said.

“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, which is something I really like about Claire. She wants to leave Friday.”

“Happy trails, my friend,” Tom said. “Have a great time.”

I was looking forward to the time with Claire. I’d gotten to know her better during my visit to Washington, and we’d stayed in touch regularly. I thought we might be a good fit for the long term. But I wasn’t telling my coworkers the entire truth. The trip with Claire wouldn’t be to South America, and it wouldn’t be pleasure.